It’s so dark that if I wasn’t exhausted from shaking I would be hyperventilating. As it stands my lungs burn from the frigid air. Shallow breaths are all I can tolerate. My eyelids feel like they weigh a hundred pounds. I’m tired, so tired of shaking, of feeling cold and anxious, of thinking about all the things I’ll miss out on.
I send my father and Nan a mental I love you. I tell Jackie that she’s the best big sister ever, even if it’s that bitch’s fault that I’m in this mess. Then I tell her I don’t want her to blame herself.
And the last thought that stays with me as I drift away. Not something deep and meaningful, nothing noble. All I can think is…fucking Delores was right.
The sound of scratching wakes me from a perfectly good dream in which I’m a human popsicle and Ben is licking me. It annoys me; that I’m being awoken. It’s the only thing giving me relief from the pain in my head and the cold making my skin simultaneously hypersensitive and numb.
My eyes slowly blink open to an endless void. I can’t see a thing. Which means I’m deceased––or on my way there. It certainly seems like it. I’m no longer shaking, and my body is dead weight. I don’t even try to move because I’m afraid I won’t be able to.
The noise gets louder.
Someone is outside the car, I surmise with what little ability to think straight I still possess. Suddenly, the windows on the side of the car I’m facing clear of snow and I can make out the faint outline of a person. By the looks of it, it’s a him and he’s large. The big guy is moving his arms and hands back and forth, quickly clearing snow off the Cube as more falls at an alarming rate.
This is interesting, I think to myself. I wonder what happens next. That’s about it though. I’m too tired to care or hold a thought in my head for longer than a second. It’s more an amusing distraction, an action movie I’m watching from afar.
The man furiously working to clear the snow looks to be wrapped in a rainbow flag. Huh, that’s interesting. With snow clinging to his head and beard, he reminds me of Santa. Also very interesting.
Big gay Santa’s got a really harsh look on his face, his brow furrowed deeply as he works. Maybe it’s more horror movie than action. If he says, “Here’s Johnny,” when he finally gets the door open, I’ll know I’m officially dead.
Gay Santa gets aggressive with the Cube and the car starts rocking. He seems to be upset that he can’t get the door open, and I’m no help. I can’t move. It’s just too much of an effort to pick up my head. Reaching over to hit the Unlock button would require a crane and I don’t have one handy right now. I’m rooting for him, though. Somewhere in the detached part of my brain that has split from reality, I hope he saves me. Mentally and morally, big gay Santa has all my support.
That’s when things escalate. He stops pulling on the door long enough to draw back his elbow and crash it into the window. It shatters loudly. Good thing I’m dead because I can’t afford to pay for that.
“Hey! Hey, you awake?” he says poking his big white head in the dark cab. His voice is raspy. Not your typical rasp, like when your throat is dry. That’s not what this is. This guy sounds like he gargles with broken glass and battery acid on the regular. Weird that I would think that while I’m deceased but this is where we’re at.
“Ma’am? Are you hurt?”
What do you think? Is on the tip of my tongue but it comes out as, “yeahlittleIdon’tknow.”
“I’m comin’ to get you.”
Reaching in, he unlocks the back door and pulls and pulls until it creaks open halfway. Then the unpleasant part. A very bright light shines in my face, forcing me to slam my eyes shut.
“Nahhoooo,” I hear myself cry out. The light hurts my head something fierce. I bury my face in the clothes I have piled over me. The sound of gay Santa sucking in a breath has me wondering what the drama is about.
“I’m getting you out. Just…gimme a minute.”
The light disappears, and the pile of clothes on top of me is pushed off. I know this because I’m getting colder, which I didn’t think was possible. Shortly after that, there’s some ham-fisted jostling, and arms the size of tree trunks scoop under my knees and armpits.
Next thing I know, I’m ripped out the car with no warning. Falling snow covers my face, my closed eyes, clinging to my eyelashes. It’s cold and annoying and makes me turtle into my jacket. I feel bruised and battered. I may not be dead yet, but I’m too tired to stay awake. Last thing I remember is gay Santa murmuring, “I’ve got you. You’re safe now.” Then, “I’m sorry.”
I know I hit my head and I’m halfway to becoming a human popsicle, but he sounds drunk…or something.
Chapter 4
A bright light hits my eyelids. It might as well have pulled me out of the grave because I feel dead. Sore and in a bad mood, I crack open my eyes slowly and at first the strange surroundings startle me. Until I reach up and feel the protruding lump and subsequent throb on the side of my head. Then I’m reminded of the prior night’s events in high-definition.
I’m lying on a ratty oversized leather couch. It’s not entirely uncomfortable, however, so that’s good. And there’s a goose down blanket over me and pillow under my head. The pillow smells strangely similar to the Moroccan Oil shampoo I use. Don’t know why I notice that but I do.
I take stock of the room. This farmhouse looks ready to be condemned. The yellow 1950s wallpaper on the walls is peeling, water stains cover the high ceiling, and the fire place is in the late stages of decay; half the bricks are in a pile inside. As for the floor…gross. It’s an ugly wall-to-wall green carpet, torn out in some areas, stained in others with what appears to be paint of every color. Sienna, magenta, cerulean blue, and lemon yellow. A veritable rainbow of drips and drabs of bright color.
I’m still wearing all the clothes I had on last night so it’s a little hard to sit upright. And when I finally do manage it, by rolling onto my side and pushing myself up, I find the same colored stains on my sweater. Yikes.
My sister’s pink cashmere sweater has a big splatter of blue oil-based paint over one nipple and a yellow one on the sleeve. Jackie is going to be pissed. Then again, serves her right for what she did to me.
Gingerly, I struggle to get my broken body off the couch. First thing first, I need to find the guy who saved my life. Gay Santa. It’s all coming back to me now. The crash, his selfless act of bravery. There’s no doubt Gay Santa is the only reason I’m alive right now.
Passing a window, I can see the conditions outside are still apocalyptic. It’s snowing. And not just snowing; it’s snowing sideways.
This is not romantic. At all. The only stirring this elicits is nausea, a hypersensitivity of the skin probably due to a mild case of frostbite, and a reminder that I hit my head. I take back every nice thing I ever said about snow.
The good news is that this hellhole is warmish. The fireplace is out of service but the heat is definitely still working. The rest of the news is all bad. No bars on my cellphone and I can’t find my red Pumas anywhere. All that separates my bare skin from whatever died on this carpet is a pair of wool socks.